


As Long As You're Here

by heathtrash



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Quarantine, Sickfic, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23310964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heathtrash/pseuds/heathtrash
Summary: “You should go,” Mary said wretchedly, over her shoulder, her hair mussed against the sheets. “I don’t want you to fall ill too.”“I’d say it’s too late for that, Milady,” Baxter replied, a gentleness to her voice. “I would have caught it by now.”A series of vignettes. Phyllis Baxter has been left behind to care for Lady Mary, while the family have moved north for their safety from a dangerous virus.
Relationships: Phyllis Baxter/Mary Crawley
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hecateandhoney (LiveLoveLikeMe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveLoveLikeMe/gifts).



It was a cool, crisp dawn—the kind where twinkling stars gradually folded into gentle blue sky as the sun rose over the frosted lawns of Downton—and one that would be beautiful were it not for the weight of a sleepless night upon Baxter, who had been daubing at Lady Mary’s face and neck with a damp cloth, sitting at her bedside with worry lining her forehead.

The house was empty. The family had left—the sickness had driven them from Downton to the North, where it had not spread yet. The servants—those they could spare, at any rate—were sent home to tend to or be tended by their families with most of the remainders of the perishables in the kitchen. Even Lady Edith had been persuaded from her London residence, where the sickness had spread rapidly.

 _“We’ll get through this together, as a family.”_ Baxter remembered Lord Grantham’s voice travelling through the door as she had passed the bed chamber, where she pictured the whole family perched about the room, while Lady Mary had laid, restless and feverish, in the other wing to contain the sickness.

Anna being with child meant that Lady Grantham had whisked her away with her for the sake of the unborn infant, leaving Baxter—who did not matter quite so much, it seemed—to care for Mary alone.

“Baxter,” Mary croaked through a parched throat. “Is that you?”

“I’m here, Milady.” 

Baxter eased a pillow up behind Mary’s head and lifted a glass of water to her lips—those blessed, cracked lips—Baxter thought of how she had kissed them last only a week ago, when Mary had been well, in a seized moment when they passed in a corridor the day before all this had transpired. Perhaps it had been she who had given the sickness to her. Her throat tightened to think of it.

Some of the water dripped from the corner of Mary’s mouth, and Baxter rushed to pick up a clean cloth and pressed it to Mary’s face—

An expanse of white cotton pulled over Mary’s form as she turned over and coughed into the pillow. Baxter put the cloth and glass down upon the beside, where she had congregated a medicine cabinet of unctions and ointments and oils to ease her mistress’s suffering.

“You should go,” Mary said wretchedly, over her shoulder, her hair mussed against the sheets. “I don’t want you to fall ill too.”

“I’d say it’s too late for that, Milady,” Baxter replied, a gentleness to her voice. “I would have caught it by now.”

But Mary had slipped back into slumber, her body rising and falling as she breathed deeply.

Baxter reached down into her sewing bag and took out a blouse she had been making for her ladyship, and with a dainty white silk began to neatly finish the buttonholes.


	2. Chapter 2

Baxter cradled the bundle of wool in her arms, breathing it in as she bore it down from her chambers to the room where Mary was sleeping. It still had the lingering smell of her grandmother’s house.

Mary was just as she had left her, as she creaked the door open—asleep, her fever broken—and resting, with her fingers folded delicately over a handful of her sheets. How Baxter wished she was enfolded in those same fingers.

She spread out the afghan over the top of the white sheets, where it laid over her mistress like a colourful talisman. 

“What’s this?”

“I’m sorry, Milady—I thought you were still asleep.” Baxter panicked as she suspected she had woken Mary and interrupted her all too important sleep. Mary’s head rose from the pillow a little more as she looked at the blanket. “My grandmother crocheted it,” she explained. “She used to wrap me up in it when I was unwell, and it always made me better. It’ll protect you.”

A pale arm freed itself from under the covers, and Mary laced her fingers through the holes in the pattern—childlike, just as Baxter herself had done. It was strange that she had instinctually done the same as the young Phyllis. Baxter bent her head and kissed each finger in turn.


	3. Chapter 3

Mary wandered through the dark, empty hallways. She had left Baxter snoozing in the chair beside the bed, some sewing in her lap—the needle fallen from her fingers and dangling precariously over the chair’s edge by a white silk thread.

She drew the crocheted blanket closer around her shoulders; in just her thin chemise she was feeling the chill even more keenly, since not a single lick of flame had danced in the hearths in this part of the house for ten days.

Strangely, Mary felt light—the house was finally free from structure and order, and she was a breeze whistling through it. She wafted through the darkened rooms of furniture shrouded in sheets, weak as she was from her lost appetite, like a ghost who had returned to haunt a lonely house, with all its inhabitants passed from it. She could do whatever mischief she liked and no one would be there to know it.

Mary found herself looking down from the gallery over the staircase to the moonlit main hall. She grasped the banister in her hands and let a mournful “ _hello_ ,” echo down. She could hear her own voice projected back at her, like the spirit she purported to be.

Footsteps sounded down the corridor—Mary turned to see Baxter’s face, illuminated by a candle, white with shock. She supposed she must look quite mad, her bare feet against the wooden floor, leaning over into the emptiness below, her face alight with exhilaration.

Baxter set the candle down and rushed over, wrapping the blanket around her where it was slipping from her shoulders, her eyes shadowed. “Oh, Mary—Milady—what are you doing out of bed in the middle of the night?”

Mary, giddy, twirled around Baxter—taking both of her hands in her own and leading her into a dance.

“Milady,” Baxter whispered patiently as she let herself be waltzed about, “you must go back to bed.”

“This is the most alive I’ve felt in days,” Mary let her voice sing out—for there was no one but themselves to disturb.

“Come now, Milady, you’ll make us both fall down—” 

Even as Baxter said it, Mary lurched forward, only to find her descent ceased by Baxter’s quick reactions.

“Well, as long as you’re here to catch me,” Mary murmured, the mania stilling in her mind as she felt Baxter’s arms about her, steadying her against the heart hammering in Baxter’s chest.

Mary cupped Baxter’s jaw with her fingers, feeling Baxter’s worry melt into desire under her touch, and tilted her head up to meet her own waiting lips.

“Please, let me take you back to bed, Milady,” Baxter said softly, forming her words carefully around the heady spell Mary had cast upon her.

Mary smiled mischievously, and let her fingertips play over Baxter’s sensitive palm. “Only if you come with me.”

Baxter was helpless to her charms.


	4. Chapter 4

Mary felt her heart leap as she watched Baxter’s small, secretive smile across the kitchen.

It had been late morning when Mary had finally arisen—to an empty bed. The sheets were pulled up neatly where Baxter had slept beside her.

Mary had irritably pulled on a purple silk dressing gown over her nightwear, stepped into some soft shoes, and headed down to the servants’ entrance, where she had found Baxter humming a tune as she whisked herself around the kitchen, smiling to herself—her disgruntled feelings had washed away at once.

“It’s not often that I get full use of the kitchen,” Baxter said, a self-conscious waver in her voice, as she tried to accustom herself to being watched, dusting flour from her hands. “Mrs Patmore is such a whirlwind of a woman that I’ve barely had a chance to boil so much as a kettle in all my years here.”

“It becomes you well,” Mary purred, thinking of all the marvellous things those hands had done. “Are you sure I can’t help?”

“You’re still the convalescent in my charge, Milady,” Baxter replied curtly as she spoooned batter into a loaf tin. “Besides, I’m almost done.”

Mary observed Baxter with appreciation as she put the cake into the hot oven, and when she turned, beckoned her over to where she was perched on a stool. 

“I should— start on the washing up,” Baxter said haltingly.

“Forget the dishes and kiss me,” Mary ordered. “As penance for letting me wake up alone this morning.”

“Yes, Milady.”

Mary drew Baxter into her space and sank her into a kiss, slipping from her seat to press her ever closer, wishing they could always have these moments of freedom.


	5. Chapter 5

The rest of the morning had passed in a whirl—Baxter had undressed, and then redressed Mary, perhaps more than once, and now they walked arm-in-arm across the Downton estate under the brilliant sunshine. The cake—slightly browned from being in the oven a little too long—and some sandwiches were wrapped up in brown paper in Baxter’s basket. 

Not a soul was around—they were alone but for two magpies, their heads bobbing forward as they walked, beaks investigating the ground for something to eat.

“Two for joy,” Baxter said, leaning over to kiss her mistress’s perfect cheek. Mary looked boyish in breeches, and was all the more vibrant for her daring.

As they walked, Baxter eyed Mary as she suppressed a cough a few too many times. “Are you sure you’re up for this, Milady? I should really have you back in bed—”

“—You would like that, wouldn’t you?” Mary smirked.

Baxter blushed.

“In any case, I am well enough to push a boat out on the lake. And I have my faithful Baxter to help me.”

Mary, in all her tweed, the fine velvet of her collar, and the angle of her hat, was deceptively healthy-looking, and Baxter had longed so for a day like this—and even though she knew Mary was not fully recovered, she doubted that they would have the freedom to kiss openly among nature forever, fearing not a single groundsman to be about to see them.

“I’ve never rowed a boat before,” Baxter responded, the lack of confidence clear in her tone. “But I’ll try to do what I can, Milady.”

They reached the lake presently, where a few old row-boats were tied to the jetty, and Baxter let her march on ahead in her smart boots as she admired how striking Mary’s legs looked in breeches.

“I’ll climb in first and keep it steady while you get in,” Mary instructed her. Baxter took Mary’s gloved hand in her own as she lowered herself carefully into the boat, which rocked alarmingly as she settled. 

The thought of the boat moving about so underneath her made Baxter quite queasy. She handed Mary the basket, before hitching up her pleated skirt so she could join her. The wooden floor of the boat felt as though it was constantly slipping about, but she managed, and settled herself on one of the struts opposite Mary.

Mary unhitched the boat, and pushed them out from the jetty with an oar. She started heaving the oars through the water once they were clear of it, looking a little pale. Baxter could see Mary’s strength already failing her, but she knew that there was nothing she could say to dissuade her determination.

“Perhaps we should just go a little way,” Baxter suggested gently. “We are _on_ the lake now, just as you wanted.”

“A little further. Up to that tree that hangs over the water,” Mary said with a weary sigh.

“Then let me take over for a bit.” Baxter gave her a look of such insistence that Mary gave in and unhooked the oars from her position, and passed them to Baxter. “Be my eyes as I can’t see where we’re going.”

It was a little chaotic at first—Baxter usually had a reasonable sense of right and left, but not so much when backwards and with the unfamiliarity of lakes and boats and oars. Mary had to tell her more than once, with much good-natured teasing—so even though Baxter felt a fool, at least she felt a fool with her beloved Mary. 

She soon found a rhythm, enjoying the rippling of the water as she pulled the oars through it—the sound of soft birdsong—and the gentle breeze around them.

“Now we can just drift and enjoy our picnic,” Mary said, laughing, her colour much better. They brought the oars back in, dripping water all over themselves in the process.

Baxter unpacked their lunch, and passed a sandwich to Mary, who had just removed her gloves. Their hands met tantalisingly, and Mary gave her a look of longing so that she felt compelled to lean over and kiss Mary’s lips, careful not to make any sudden movements. Mary was more reckless—she tried to draw Baxter closer, resulting in the boat tilting dangerously over, at which they abruptly stopped.

“Let’s not capsize the boat,” Baxter murmured as they broke apart. 

“Perhaps next time,” Mary teased her. “I wouldn’t want to ruin the lovely cake you made us.”


End file.
